


The Sleeping Habits of Birds

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batdad, Gen, Humor, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Bruce isn't quite prepared for his newest Robin's neuroses.





	

–  
  
The first time it happens, Bruce is so surprised he can do nothing but stare.  
  
Standing in the doorway of the master bedroom,  _his_  bedroom, lit only by the light from the hall, Bruce can make out the figure of Tim on the bed.  
  
The dark-haired teen is asleep, tipped sideways and curled up small. His feet still touch the carpet.   
He’s wearing a faded band t-shirt (Dick’s, if Bruce remembers correctly), and a pair of flannel, striped pyjama pants. He looks faintly cold, huddled on top of the immaculately made bed. His weight, Bruce notes absently, is barely enough to wrinkle the covers.  
  
Wondering what has gotten into the newly-adopted teen, Bruce moves quietly into the room to turn on the bedside lamp. It flickers to life with a low hum, bathing the room in warm yellow light.  
  
Tim frowns, slightly, in his sleep, but otherwise doesn’t stir.   
  
From here Bruce can see exactly how tired Tim looks, dark smudges like bruises under his eyes. In spite of this, he looks relaxed in a way he never is while awake, his forehead clear of lines, mouth slack. He looks his age for once, maybe even younger.  
  
Bruce reaches out and touches a hand to the thin fabric covering Tim’s shoulder.  
  
At once, he’s up like a shot, eyes going wide as he takes in his surroundings.  
  
“Is everything okay?” Bruce says, eyebrows raised. More confused than concerned.  
  
Tim opens his mouth as his face floods with colour. He stutters. “I– I was. I wanted, I was waiting to. I had to ask you, but, it's– never mind, it can wait. I, I fell asleep, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”  
  
Bruce squeezes Tim’s shoulder slightly, opening his mouth to say the apology isn’t necessary, but the boy ducks out from under his hand and is at the door before he can blink. It’s a scramble, graceless and desperate. An escape.  
  
“ ‘night, Bruce.” And then Tim’s gone.  
  
–  
  
Tim seems fine at breakfast the next morning, if a little uncomfortable.   
  
So Bruce puts it out of his mind.  
  
–  
  
That’s why Bruce is just as surprised the second time, a little under two weeks later.  
  
Tim is half-sprawled over the edge of the bed, curled into himself as someone in pain. His fingers are clutched into the fabric of his own shirt (a different one, now, but still Dick’s), clinging and sad.   
  
He looks more exhausted than Bruce has seen him in a while, tears glistening on dark lashes. Though his face is peaceful.   
  
He’s shivering in his sleep, pale skin raised in goosebumps. His bare toes curled into the carpet.   
  
And Bruce doesn’t know what to do.  
  
First, he covers the boy with a blanket, being careful not to wake him. Tim makes a small sound of contentment and cuddles further into the covers, Bruce frozen above him.  
  
Then he heads downstairs to phone Dick.   
  
“Something wrong, B?” Dick’s voice says on the end of the line. He sounds… worried, had picked up after a single ring.  
  
“Did I get you at a bad time,” Bruce says, after a moment, because that thought should have occurred to him before now. It’s nearly 3am.  
  
“Nope, just got in. You're… at home?”  
  
“Everything is fine,” Bruce says, and he can hardly blame Dick for assuming otherwise. He is not, typically, a late-night call kind of guy. “I’m calling–” his mouth curls down, slightly “–for… advice. It’s about Tim.”  
  
“If this is a birds and bees type of thing,” Dick says. “Refer him to me immediately.”  
  
And Bruce takes a moment, wonders on how to word his problem. Dick waits silently for him to speak, which shouldn’t be surprising. Dick has known him a long time, knows how he functions.  
  
“Can you think of a reason,” he says, eventually. “Why Tim might… fall asleep, in my room? When I’m not there?”  
  
He hears a rush of static as Dick inhales, says, “Tim–? I… he really did that?” Concern and confusion at once.  
  
“Twice in as many weeks,” Bruce confirms. “He’s there as we speak.”  
  
“So he’s just… sleeping in your bed when you aren’t there?” Dick says, evidently bewildered. “You’re out patrolling and he’s being little Timmylocks?”  
  
“Not in my bed so much as on it,” Bruce muses. “Half falling off it. When it happened the other night, I woke him. He got upset and evasive, and left very quickly.”  
  
“He’s not  _sleeping_  in your bed, B,” Dick says, sounding… annoyed? “He’s  _falling asleep_  there waiting up for you.” And there’s a rustle of static and a distant mumble of “World’s Greatest Detective my ass”, before Dick puts the phone back up to his ear.  
  
“What,” Bruce says, flatly.   
  
“Has it happened before?”  
  
Bruce opens his mouth to say  _of course not_  when he thinks of the nights he sends Tim home first. The nights when he doesn’t let Tim come with him at all. When he would almost swear Tim’s door shuts just as he enters the hallway. When he frowns briefly at a small patch of warmth, on the end of his bed. As though someone had been sitting there.  
How Tim doesn’t often seem any more well-rested when he isn’t on patrol. How some nights he half-stirs from a doze, sure he had heard the faint  _creak_  of his door, had felt someone’s eyes on him. And he finds he can’t really say anything at all, because, _why?_  
  
“His dad just died,” Dick reminds him, and Bruce blinks, startled. “And you have a seriously dangerous job that you have a habit of edging him out of. I’d guess he’s scared he’s going to lose you too.”  
  
“But,” Bruce says, and has no follow-up.  
  
“We’re all he’s got,” Dick says, sounding sad and a little proud because he loves his brother fiercely. Bruce can hear him stretching, the creak of bedsprings. And then, a grin in his voice, (the shit-eating one, the one that had pissed off so many crooks in the past) “If you want advice, Dad, you’re gonna hafta ask nicely.”  
  
Bruce doesn’t sigh because he’s the Batman, and he is not going to be reduced to that by his eldest son. Flat, he says, “Dick. Help me with this, please.”  
  
“Okay,” Dick says, but he doesn’t sound as pleased as he could. “I think you have to start a routine. Something you do to show him you’re safe, and make him feel loved and included all at the same time.”  
  
Bruce waits expectantly, until–  
  
“You’ve gotta start tucking him in.”  
  
“He’s fifteen!”  
  
“You’re right,” Dick says, pissed off now. “That’s  _way_  too old to have abandonment issues–”  
  
“ _Alright_ , don’t hang up,” Bruce says, rubs his forehead with one hand. “I– I’ll try. You know I’m bad at this.”  
  
“You don’t have to, y'know,  _literally_  tuck him in. I think between you two you might actually explode with awkwardness,” and Bruce can  _hear_  the eye roll. “I just mean you’ve gotta start a routine where every night, you check in on  _him_. I dunno, even if he’s asleep just open his door, maybe say, 'g'night, Tim’, cuz he’s a pretty light sleeper. Just something he can start to expect.”  
  
“Dick–”  
  
“You will notice I am not pushing you to tell him 'I love you’, even though that kid really needs telling,” Dick says crossly. “Just– I get that you’re bad at saying it. But at least  _show_  him. Like you used to with me, and then Jay.” His voice drops, quietly, at the last part.  
  
“I’ll try,” Bruce says, after the silence that follows. And, “Thanks, Dick.”  
  
“I’m doing it for Timmy, not you,” Dick says, shit-eating grin in his voice again, and Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
But then, quiet, “Dick. You know that. I do, right?”  
  
“Do–?” and it takes a minute for him to get it, but when he does he doesn’t laugh. The smile in his voice is gentle, fond and very faintly exasperated when he says, “ _Oh._  I love you too, Bruce. Be sweet to Tim, okay?”  
  
And Dick hangs up, leaving Bruce sitting in a contemplative silence.   
  
Just when did his kid get to be this much smarter than him, anyway?  
  
–  
  
It’s a few nights later when Bruce gives it a try. (Tim had been embarrassed since Bruce had re-entered his bedroom that night, finding it empty, the blanket neatly folded and still warm at the end of the bed. But they had both, as always, kept silent.)  
  
When he opens the door to Tim’s dark bedroom, the teen is curled up under a mound of covers. After a second, he wakes himself with a start, sitting up groggily.   
  
“Bruce?” he says, after a moment. Hoarse from sleep. “What's–?”  
  
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bruce says, with a half-smile. “Just checking in.”  
  
“You–” Tim says, and can’t seem to come up with something else to say. He settles with, “Oh.”  
  
“How’s your wrist?”  
  
“It’s fine. The swelling went down and Alfred bandaged it for me,” the boy says, still sounding faintly bewildered. “Are you–?”  
  
“I was just going to get some sleep myself,” Bruce says, leaning against the doorway. Tim, he can see, is trying to make out his expression, but can’t see him well in the dark just yet. So he smiles, a bit wider, a bit gentler, and says, “Goodnight, Tim. Sleep well.”  
  
“Uh. G-goodnight, Bruce.”  
  
**-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/20954697743/the-sleeping-habits-of-birds)


End file.
